


Skittles Series: Red

by MercyBraavos



Series: Skittles Series [4]
Category: Psych
Genre: Emotional Hurt, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Rough Sex, Safewords, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-27 19:25:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8413717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MercyBraavos/pseuds/MercyBraavos
Summary: Full stop. A red Skittle.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PsychLassieFan4Ever](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PsychLassieFan4Ever/gifts).



> As per usual in my fics set during the third and/or fourth season, Abigail does not exist.
> 
> Spoilers for 3X15 “Tuesday the 17th” and 3x16 “An Evening with Mr. Yang.”
> 
> NOTE: For the record, I absolutely adore Justine Bateman so any and all vitriol here is directed toward Victoria who is fictional and not Ms. Bateman who is awesome.
> 
> Trigger Warnings: rough sex, mildly dubious consent, prevention of the use of safewords, safewording

\--

The door closes just shy of slamming but Shawn, sitting on the edge of the bed with his head cradled in his hands, doesn’t look up. He doesn’t need to. He hears the approaching footsteps and then shoes come into view, their regular morning shine dulled by the activity of the day.

“Go home, Lassie.”

It comes out sharper than he intends. Shawn doesn’t _mean_ to snap at him, really he doesn’t, but the last couple of weeks have been a nightmare; starting with being plunged into the plot of a campy horror flick and ending with a deluded serial killer almost detonating his mother. Add to that Jules suddenly deciding _now_ was a good time to ask him out and let’s not even talk about the dinner date Lassie had with his estranged wife – Lassie doesn’t think Shawn knows about that, but _oh_ , Shawn knows – and all he wants to do is sleep for about a month and pretend none of this shit fucking happened.

“We need to talk, Shawn,” is Lassiter’s stern but quiet response.

Still not making eye-contact, Shawn scoffs. He focuses his gaze instead on his pineapple dish where a red Skittle with a cracked shell has joined a misshapen green, lumpy purple and the slightly smooshed yellow he brought home from Lassiter’s house.

He’s been avoiding Lassie precisely because he doesn’t _want_ to talk. This is the first time they’ve been alone together since before Shawn took the case – that wasn’t a case but then was a case – at Camp Tikihama. Shawn had gone over to Lassie’s place the night after. He knew how worried his boyfriend had to have been when Shawn had gone MIA overnight and he wanted to make it up to him with a nice night in. His plan had been to surprise him when he got home: dinner and _Heartbreak Ridge_ followed by as much sweaty, dirty sex as they could take before passing out.

But then he’d noticed the half crumpled papers between the coffee pot and stove. He’d only meant to move them away from heat-generating appliances, but in smoothing them out he couldn’t help but see what they were.

Receipts.

A jewelry store and dinner for two.

Dinner for _two_.

Dated for the night when Shawn was conveniently out of town.

He’d abandoned his plans, tidied up any evidence that he’d been in Lassiter’s apartment and fled. He ignored Lassie’s calls and texts; only showing up at the station because the Chief said it was an emergency.

He knew it was Victoria. As angry as Shawn was, he still knew deep down that Lassie wouldn’t pursue someone new, but that did virtually nothing to soothe the sting of knowing that some part of Lassiter still wanted his marriage back; of knowing that Shawn – who Lassie claimed to love – wasn’t enough… maybe wasn’t _right_.

Shawn wonders how their dinner went. He’s not sure he wants to know.

The worst part of all of this is that he can’t even accuse Lassie of cheating on him, not really. Because Victoria, for all her distance and disdain is still Lassie’s _wife._ Legally and morally and probably biblically and whatever-the-fuck-else-ever… they’re still married and Shawn feels like a fool. He’s a rom-com cliché. The plaything on the side waiting for his boyfriend to leave his wife. All he needs is a bestie gently reminding him that they never leave their wives.

He’s going to have to have a serious conversation with Gus about not warning him away from this shit. No, his best friend had been fucking _supportive_ when Shawn spilled the beans about his relationship with Lassiter.

Soon-to-be former relationship.

He doesn’t want to do this. He can’t do this. He wants to laugh hysterically, actually. Three weeks ago they were in bed, exchanging ‘I love you’s and promising there was no one else and now he’s waiting to hear which platitude Lassie will throw at him when all it really boils down to is ‘I don’t love you enough.’

Jesus _fuck_ he doesn’t want to do this!

But, here Lassie is. Standing in front of him wanting to talk; saying that they _need_ to talk which is pretty much universal code for ‘it’s over.’ That thought makes his chest tighten and his skin prickle. He concentrates on his breathing, trying to quell the waves of nausea rolling through him.

He doesn’t want to lose Lassie. He loves him. He loves him a lot. ‘Stop the world I want to get off, no one else for the rest of my life’ loves him and this was never part of the plan, but it happened. Shawn doesn’t love many people. He likes a lot of people. Cares a great deal for some, but loves very few.

And he loves Lassie. Come what may, Shawn loves him… but he meant it when he told Lassie that he just wants him to be happy and if that means letting Lassie go, then no matter how much it hurts, Shawn will let him go.

And _fuck_ it hurts.

“Shawn, please,” Lassie pleads, “please look at me.”

It’s a testament to how upset Shawn is that when Lassiter drops to his knees in front of him, the idea of making some sort of blowjob related joke occurs to him only as a faded afterthought. He doesn’t want to laugh anymore. He wants to fucking cry.

He’s pondering his next move when two warm, big hands, Lassie’s hands, light on his knees and slide tentatively halfway up his thighs. And for whatever reason, that’s what does it. That’s the last straw. Lassie touching him like that, having the motherfucking temerity to be _tender_ with him that breaks the last of his control.

“I know about Victoria.”

Lassie’s fingers clench, reflexively Shawn thinks, before the hands are gone and their owner has risen and stepped away.

“That’s – that’s part of what we need to talk about,” Lassiter says slowly,

Shawn can’t help himself, he finally laughs – a single loud huff of bitter laughter punctuated by an incredulous, “part? That’s _part_ of what we need to talk about?”

When he finally looks up, Lassiter is several steps away and looking down at his feet, his expression unreadable.

“How did you find out?”

Shawn jumps to his feet and closes the distance between them. “ _That’s_ what you’re worried about?” he hisses angrily. “It doesn’t fucking matter how I found out, _Carlton._ What matters is the one way, the one _motherfucking_ way that I _didn’t_ find out.” Shawn looks at him pointedly. He doesn’t think he’s ever been this angry.

“I didn’t know what to tell you!” Lassiter’s voice is rough and low, tinged with desperation.

Shawn scoffs at him. “I don’t know, ‘hey, Shawn, I know I said I loved you, but do you mind if I go back to fucking my wife for a bit?’ might’ve worked,” he says viciously.

Lassiter pales at that and Shawn feels simultaneously sick and victorious. But, fuck it if he’s going to let Lassie go, they’re both going to feel it, they’re both going to remember it. Shawn’s going to do it with a literal fucking bang. It’s his turn to drop to his knees.

When Shawn hits the floor, fingers already working on Lassiter’s belt, Lassie exhales sharply and reaches down to grab Shawn’s hands. Almost growling, Shawn bats them away and works open the button on Lassiter’s slacks, yanking the zipper down with an obscenely loud rasp.

“Shawn, stop!” Lassiter gasps, fists clenched at his sides.

Slowly and deliberately, Shawn reaches into the opening he’s made and pulls Lassie’s cock free from the layers of fabric. He strokes the half hard flesh, feeling it fatten in his grip. “Say the word,” he whispers, flicking out his tongue to catch the pearl of precome he’s coaxed out. “Say it and I’ll stop.”

He will. They each have their safeword. Maybe for not this express reason, but they have them and if Lassie uses his, Shawn will stop and that will be it. In every way possible, that will be it.

He looks up, eyebrow raised, waiting. The indecision in Lassie’s eyes is rivaled only by raw desire and Shawn drinks in the look, memorizes it and catalogs it in the file marked ‘Lassie’ tucked in the recesses of his heart.

Lassie doesn’t use the word. He doesn’t use any words. Instead he lifts one hand to cover Shawn’s where it rests on his hip. The other he threads into Shawn’s hair and when Shawn’s mouth descends on him that hand tightens and pulls and Shawn relishes in the sharp pain.

There’s no finesse here, no teasing. Shawn takes him in to the hilt and sucks hard, his cheeks hollowing with the force of it. Above him, Lassie moans and gasps. He whimpers broken sounds that might be Shawn’s name or that might be nothing at all. When Shawn lets his teeth scrape gently up Lassie’s entire length, he cries out and yanks Shawn’s head back.

“You’re going to make me come,” he manages, his voice low and strained, “so unless this is all you want you need to stop.”

Shawn stands up and backs away, toward the bed. “I want a lot of things, Lass.” He can’t keep the bitterness out of his voice if he tried, so he doesn’t try. Instead, he sheds his clothes until he’s standing naked before a fully dressed Lassiter and it occurs to him that this moment is a metaphor for what their relationship has become.

Shawn, stripped to nothing while Lassie looks on.

That thought spurns Shawn into action and he’s going to stay in control tonight no matter what it takes.

Lassiter is still standing where Shawn left him. Fully clothed except for his hard, slick cock jutting out from his open fly. Reaching into his nightstand, Shawn extracts his lube and scoots up onto the bed. He’s slicked up his fingers and pressed one inside himself before Lassie realizes what’s happening and takes a step toward him.

“No.”

His face is a curious mix of confusion and resignation, but Lassiter stops at Shawn’s command and waits. He watches, eyes widening progressively as Shawn preps himself roughly, thrusting with two fingers now, intentionally failing to give himself time to adjust. He shoves a third finger in, relishing the way it burns, before pulling out and getting back to his feet to grab a condom out of the drawer.

“You going to stand there all night or are you going to get over here and fuck me?” Shawn asks, smirking at Lassiter’s stunned expression.

When Lassie doesn’t move, Shawn simply moves him. Grabbing the collar of his dress shirt, Shawn drags Lassiter to the bed and shoves him down on his back. He doesn’t bother taking off Lassiter’s clothes and yanks Lassie’s hands away when he tries to do it himself. A dark, possessive part of him wants to mark Lassiter. Wants to know that when he’s with Victoria again she’ll see evidence of Shawn all over him.

But that would hurt her and as much as Shawn doesn’t give a fuck about Victoria, he imagines that hurting her would hurt Lassie and he can’t bring himself to do that. Instead, he yanks Lassie’s pants and boxers down far enough to completely free his erection before climbing up to straddle his hips.

Affecting an impassive expression, Shawn picks up the condom he’d tossed on the bed and offers it to Lassiter. The other man takes it and opens it, pausing to look up at Shawn who huffs impatiently, before rolling it on. Shawn grabs the lube again, stroking Lassiter’s cock a few times to slick it up.

His body isn’t ready, he knows that and judging by Lassiter’s expression when Shawn lifts up and impales himself in one swift move, Lassie knows it too.

Lassiter’s eyes are wild, frantic, fighting the twin sensations of pleasure and concern. “I’m hurting you,” he says thickly.

“Yes,” Shawn agrees, but begins rocking his hips anyway. He wants it to hurt, wants it to ache for days so he’ll have something to focus on other than the fact that Lassiter has shattered his heart like a schoolboy whose crush laughed when he asked for a date.

He’s rocking harder now, working the muscles of his legs to thrust himself up and down, back and forth. Beneath him, Lassiter is panting. His hands come down on Shawn’s hips but Shawn grabs them, laces their fingers together and presses them on the bed, using the leverage to fuck himself harder onto Lassiter’s dick.

His pace is frantic and rough. The pain is still there, but it dims when the new angle drags the cock inside him against his prostate with every thrust. He’s well aware that he’s using Lassie as a virtual sex toy at this point. The sadness behind Lassiter’s eyes makes Shawn wonder if Lassie feels the same way.

He glares down at Lassiter, wants to hate him for this; for making him feel safe and loved and wanted just to rip it all away. But he can’t hate him and that just makes him even angrier and before he knows it, frustrated tears are pricking at his eyes. When one spills over and drips onto Lassie’s neck, Lassiter’s features harden and he opens his mouth. Shawn knows what he’s going to do, he can see the word taking shape and _fuck_ if he’s going to let Lassie take this away from him too.

Yanking his hands out of Lassiter’s grip he clamps a hand over Lassie’s mouth and grabs his own neglected erection with the other. Lassiter is all but clawing at Shawn’s hand over his mouth, but Shawn holds on tight, jerking his cock fast and hard and before anything else can happen he’s coming and coming hard, streaking Lassiter’s belly and chest. He can tell by the way Lassiter arches and heaves below him that whether he likes it or not, he’s coming too.

Shawn lifts his hand away from Lassiter’s mouth and over the blood rushing through his head he can hear Lassiter call his name as he rides the waves of his climax. For a moment, he lets himself feel it, feel the impending loss of this and a sob bubbles up and out before he can stop it.

He rolls off of Lassie and stumbles toward his clothes, pulling on his boxers and t-shirt in a half-assed attempt to feel protected. He can hear Lassiter moving behind him, disposing of the condom and putting himself back together probably. He turns to see Lassie buckling his belt back up and scoffs to himself.

He normally loves being right, but everything is twisted and backward tonight and he hates every second of it and he’s so fucking hurt and angry and nothing makes sense and before he knows what he’s doing the pineapple dish is in his hand and he’s hurling it at the wall, spraying ceramic and skittles all over the floor.

“Jesus!” Lassie exclaims, staring at the remains of the dish. He turns toward Shawn, arms up and out and then he’s holding him and whispering apologies against Shawn’s skin. No part of Shawn wants to hear this, he doesn’t care how sorry Lassiter is and he won’t give him the satisfaction of forgiveness.

Mustering any strength he has left, Shawn grips Lassiter’s shoulders and shoves him away. He meets the other man’s eyes before slowly and deliberately saying the word he never thought he’d actually have occasion to use.

“ _Red_.”

Shawn isn’t sure if Lassiter’s horrified expression is because Shawn just safeworded him or because he did it when they weren’t even having sex or if because he knows damn well Shawn prevented him from using his own. It could be any or all and Shawn realizes he doesn’t care anymore.

“It’s over,” Shawn says flatly. “Now get out.” Turning on his heel, he locks himself in the bathroom and waits. It feels like a long time before he finally hears his front door open and close again.

Lassie is gone.

Sliding down the tiled wall, Shawn drops his head onto his knees and lets himself cry.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry.


End file.
